Forty
by Love Out Of Lust
Summary: One shot. Ste helps Brendan celebrate his fortieth birthday.


"Go away, Steven."

"You're so fucking grumpy."

Brendan's rudeness earns him a kick in the shin by Ste's cold foot, making the older man wince. The little bastard has already spread the curtains, allowing the morning sunshine to seep through, making Brendan squint and blink through the intrusion.

He doesn't have to look at the clock beside the bed to know that it's still early; Steven's still in his boxers, their shared dressing gown covering his arms from the cold. His hair's yet to be flattened or have any product applied to it. Brendan feels a smile forming against the pillow at the sight of him. As far as wake up calls go, this is one of the more preferable ones.

"I need my sleep," he mumbles, his eyelids lowering once more, his body settling into the covers more comfortably.

"You're already beautiful enough. Come on, don't be like that."

Brendan sighs, sensing that Steven isn't about to get off the bed anytime soon. The boy's staring at him expectantly, excitement dancing in his eyes, making them bright despite the early hour.

"Make me a coffee and I might play nice."

Steven knows him too well. A mug's already placed on the bedside table, steaming hot and with a light layer of froth that Steven's created using their new machine. He'd grown tired of going into Carter's Deli everyday to get one, _I don't get a discount now that I don't work there Bren, it's costing me tons to get you them everyday. _Even when Brendan had insisted that he pay, Steven had forked out for a machine, one of the fancy ones that made him jump up and down like a little boy with its first use. To Steven, having a coffee machine in the house is still a novelty. Something special. Brendan loves how easily pleased the boy is.

"Here you go."

Brendan takes the mug from him, their hands touching as it passes between them. He sighs in appreciation when he tastes the first sip, settling back against the pillow and adjusting to the light of the room.

"You're going to be unbearable today, aren't you?"

"I don't know what you mean," Steven says sweetly, smiling like a Cheshire cat. The disinterest from Brendan only makes him more determined to get him to enjoy himself.

He's planned everything to the finest detail: what time Cheryl and Nate are going to arrive, what time Anne will phone them, how long Amy and the kids will stay so that she and Brendan aren't given enough of an opportunity to rip each others heads off. Steven's always viewed his life as chaotic and unscheduled; having everything so carefully orchestrated makes pride swell within him. It'll feel good, getting something so right.

Steven grabs the coffee from Brendan's hands before he's even managed half.

"Now come on, get some clothes on and sit at the table."

"Yes dear," Brendan mutters. He means to provoke him, but Steven looks privately delighted by his words, a smile forming, a spring in his step as he leaves Brendan alone in the room.

Brendan lifts up the bed cover, seeing what kind of state he's in. He barely remembers anything about the night before, having consumed what felt like his body weight in whiskey and cocktails. Steven had egged him on and tipped more alcohol over his own body, making it impossible for Brendan to resist licking it from his skin.

At first glance he looks presentable, his neck free from Steven's bite marks when he glances at it in the mirror. But with further inspection he can see the ruddy colour of bruises peppering his thighs, Steven's grip making its mark when he'd been riding him blind drunk, the boy giggling loud enough to wake the neighbours.

He's relieved that it's something he can cover with clothes; he doesn't think that Amy would hold onto her newfound acceptance of their relationship if she saw the near identical marks covering her best friend's skin.

He chucks on a pair of jogging bottoms, still too lazy and languid from sleep to have the energy to throw on a t-shirt. His movements are uncoordinated as he walks into the kitchen, making a beeline for the cupboard to grab two paracetamol for the headache that's threatening to make this day even more unpleasant.

When he turns around he nearly splutters over the water that he'd been chugging back, holding his hand in front of his mouth to keep it in and calm the panic rising within him. He'd been naively hopeful when Steven had reassured him that he wouldn't make a fuss today - he should have known that what the boy says and what he means are two completely different things.

Presents adorn the table, propped up around the side to make way for the tray that's at the forefront, covered with the most elaborate breakfast Brendan's ever seen. Every type of breakfast food is there - cereal in its many varieties, thickly buttered toast, pancakes covered in syrup, scrambled eggs and grilled bacon, and freshly squeezed orange juice to drink. Brendan's stomach rumbles at the mere sight.

"What happened to not wanting to go out with a tubby?" He asks, a reminder of a past comment that has Steven grinning and patting Brendan on his stomach affectionately.

"It's your birthday. It's special, isn't it?"

Brendan sits gingerly in the chair that Steven pulls out for him, grateful that the boy hasn't gone the extra mile and brought balloons with his age displayed, unavoidable and blunt. He would have made do with a leisurely shag and a shared shower, but Steven had been firm; they're going to celebrate today, not deny its existence.

"What's first?" Steven says, gesturing around at the buffet spread out before them.

Brendan helps himself to a slice of bacon, the smell mouthwatering. He can scarcely believe his luck sometimes, falling in love with a chef. Everything's cooked to perfection, and he groans when he bites into the bacon, Steven loudly crunching his way through some toast.

"What time did you get up to make all this?" Brendan asks. He hadn't been aware of Steven creeping out of bed, the loss of warmth that usually alerted him to the boy's absence, unsettling him and causing him to be torn from his slumber.

"Doesn't matter." Steven waves his hand dismissively, not wanting to give the impression that he'd made any fuss. This is meant to be about _Brendan_, not Brendan's guilt or embarrassment. Steven's heard too many times in the past how_ I don't deserve you, everything you do for me_ and it hurts, knowing that Brendan believes it, that their past is never far away, a reminder of what had happened between them.

Brendan's only begun to tuck into some scrambled egg when he sees Steven's eyes flitter towards the card lying by his side, continuing to stare at it nervously.

"You want me to open that now?" He doesn't want to spend the next half an hour with the skittishness of the boy putting him on edge too.

"You don't have to." Steven's voice says the opposite. "I mean, it's only if you _want_ to. There's no rush."

Brendan smiles at Steven knowingly, amused by the fact that even after almost ten years of being together, the boy's still scared about giving him a birthday card. He's like this every time, eyes darting with trepidation, wetting the edges of his lips as he waits for Brendan to read his carefully selected words, looking as though the man's reaction could be the difference between life or death.

Brendan decides to put him out of his misery. He wipes his mouth clean and brushes his hands with the napkin that Steven has gone to the trouble to place by his side, knowing of Brendan's fondness for messy eating. There's silence in the room, Steven hardly sounding like he's breathing as Brendan opens the envelope, revealing the card inside.

Brendan takes a sharp intake of breath, hit by a sudden wave of emotion that disarms him. His eyes travel over the card several times, lips seeming immobile and unable to form the words of what this is doing to him, what it means.

Somehow Steven has managed to hold onto one of Leah's old drawings, the sort which she'd gradually grown out of creating once she'd become older, replacing felt tips for boys and her first exploration of make up. Brendan remembers the day she had drawn it, his heart hammering as he'd slowly begun to realise that he was in the picture, daddy Brendan besides daddy Steven, a portrait of an unconventional family that somehow worked, fitted together.

It's placed alongside a more recent image, a coloured photograph this time. Brendan had been captured unawares in the photo, in the middle of trying to make Leah and Lucas some dinner, staring disdainfully at the result: a saucepan charred with the remains of his ingredients, burnt because he couldn't cook worth a damn, never had been able to. Steven's laughter had filled the kitchen, and he'd passed his phone to Cheryl before Brendan had been able to compose himself, the flash of the camera in his face as she'd recorded his last attempt at playing chef.

Despite his surprise, there's something warm about his expression in the image, his eyes soft and his mouth slack, the tension that he'd carried throughout most of his life having vanished into the unknown, rarely to resurface. Maybe his hair is slightly thinner on top than it used to be, and he's lost some of the muscularity that he'd had in his earlier years, having eased off on his time at the gym in favour of being with Steven instead, but he looks _happy_. Like the life he's lived has been worth something. He's staring at the boy in front of him, and there's an unmistakable look of wonderment on his face, still can't believe his luck that this thing has no ending, had been living together for five years when that photo had been taken.

"Do you like it?"

Steven's voice brings him back into the present. He's not going to let Steven think that he doesn't appreciate the effort he's gone to, the thought behind it, what it represents. He doesn't want him to mistake his silence for indifference.

"Of course." He swallows around the word, taking Steven's hand from the table and grasping it in his own, letting it warm his skin. "I love it." He loves _him_, but saying it might choke him now, might make him do something stupid and sentimental like let out a heaving sob, incredulous that he has a family, a real one that had always seemed out of reach.

"I was going to get you a proper card, one from the shops, but the kids thought you might like this, and...well, it's personal, isn't it?"

It's almost _too_ personal, too much for Brendan to know what to do with. He squeezes Steven's hand before releasing it, not knowing what his reaction will be to the words inside. He knows how difficult it can be for Steven to write anything, especially something that he can't easily cross out several times, correcting it along the way. He's found the boy swearing and muttering under his breath when the kid's birthdays roll around, practicing his messages to them on a scrap bit of paper before transferring it onto a card, making sure that everything's spelt correctly. It means more to him, knowing the effort that he goes to, and how important it is to him to get this right.

Brendan doesn't want to fuck this up, has always regretted a particular Valentine's Day years ago when he'd forgotten the date, hadn't even been aware of it before Steven had presented him with a card, his face creasing in disappointment when he realised that Brendan didn't have one for him in return.

He tries to control the slight trembling of his hands as he opens the card. He immediately sees that there are messages from Leah and Lucas inside, messages with their love and hope that he'll have a good day, that they'll see him in the afternoon. They know him too well just like their father, _don't even think about not coming to your own party_ written in Leah's untidy scrawl. Brendan laughs despite his nervousness, fingers brushing against the side of the card that contains the message that makes his stomach twist.

He can feel Steven tensing beside him, and a glance reveals that the boy's chewing on his bottom lip. He makes a grab for some cereal when he sees that Brendan's looking, distracting himself by pouring some into a bowl and pretending that he isn't concentrating on Brendan's reaction, every change of expression on his face.

Brendan knows from experience that it's difficult now, finding something new to say in a card. They've been together so long, exchanged so many cards that coming up with something original is almost an impossibility. But the words still hold meaning, still affect him, especially the unavoidable fact that it's been ten years that they'd been together, the words bold and underlined on the card, as though the boy's amazed himself. Brendan's about to correct him, about to remind him that it's actually been eight years, but he think he understands then, realising that to Steven it isn't about how long they've been an actual couple, _boyfriends_ - the word still sounds unnatural in Brendan's head, strange and with a hint of discomfort that's fading more as the years progress - but it's about how long they've known each other, how long it had taken for them to fall in love. An entire decade of wanting and being without and finally having nothing to separate them anymore.

The message is unashamedly sentimental. Steven isn't afraid of exposing himself, seems to lack the self preservation that had controlled Brendan for almost the entirety of his life. He wears his heart on his sleeve, love something that gives him strength rather than fear. It fills the page now, _I love you, _and even in letter form it feels like something that needs to be protected, because if he loses that then he has nothing. Brendan still isn't sure if Steven understands quite what it means, what he's done for him, trusting him and holding his life in the palm of his hand with the power to break him.

He allows words to take a backseat, pulling Steven towards him instead, the boy forgetting about his breakfast and nestling in close, his warm and soft hair resting under the crook of Brendan's neck as the older man kisses his cheek, feeling the smoothness that still exists there. Steven can still pass as someone in his twenties, has barely aged at all in the years that Brendan's known him, and he both loves and hates him for it, feels like he must look out of place next to someone so beautiful and untouched by the passage of time. He fears the day that someone looks him up and down, asking Steven why he would settle for him when he could do so much better.

Brendan's aware of it, knows how the boy could have anyone he wanted, no one on this earth who's too good for him. It stings, but Steven's made his choice, makes his choice every day just by waking up beside Brendan, kissing him to rouse him and fucking him until the sun comes up, fighting his corner and defending him until his eyes must water with the strain of it.

And Jesus, he _needs_ to defend him, feels like the whole village is against him at times, accusing him of dealing drugs when a bag of cocaine had been found by a police raid, until CCTV had revealed that someone else had planted them there, an outsider trying to stitch him up and avoid the blame themselves. Steven had been the first one on his side, had faced the gossip surrounding him head on, mouthing off at Diane O'Connor and Martha Kane when they'd been discussing him, how this was _just the kind of thing that Brendan would do, I heard about him the minute I moved here_.

Brendan had watched as the boy had been inches away from their faces, temper rising and words vicious, "you don't know a fucking thing about him", and Brendan had been conflicted: did he try and keep the peace by stopping Steven, or did he stand back and watch as his boy was confrontational, and fucking glorious with it?

He decided to be responsible, had to at least attempt it once in his life, grasping Steven around the waist and having to drag him to get him back to the flat, the boy struggling there the entire way, "I'm not a child Brendan," only for Brendan to bite back, "Don't fucking act like one then." They'd barely said another word before they'd been ripping the clothes off each other, movements frantic and actions verging on violent as they'd pushed and shoved each other, first onto the sofa and then rolling onto the carpet, Steven's hole swallowing Brendan's cock down to the root, rising and falling on it until he'd fucked himself into coming, a stream of spunk spilling onto the new sofa they'd just brought.

Steven had laughed afterwards, loud raucous laughter that was like a booming foghorn. "Shall we try and get a new one?" He asked, trying to wipe the come stains off the material in vain. Brendan had taken one look at it, deciding there and then that it looked _homely_. No one besides them would ever quite know what it was. "If it doesn't wash out, then we'll leave it."

Steven reaches for a slice of toast, the butter oozing from it. He takes a bite himself and then begins feeding it to Brendan, and the mood becomes sensual, the boy wiping off the crumbs that have appeared around Brendan's moustache.

"You like the card then?" He asks quietly, a distant hum that conceals how important the answer truly is.

"I love it." He kisses him, licking against Steven's lips, morning breath be damned. There's something delectable and ripe about Steven in the early hours, something that's begging to be taken and explored. He suits wearing the oversized robe, suits having his hair tousled from it being pressed against the pillow all night, the memory of Brendan's hands raking through his soft, brown strands still present in both their minds.

They may be nursing hangovers, but some things are bright and vivid: Brendan licking champagne off Steven's cock and getting even more intoxicated from it, the tastes colliding and fizzing on his tongue; Steven drunkenly slurring "this belongs to me, and this," whilst creating a map down Brendan's body with his hands, his assured fingers gliding across every orifice; Cheryl phoning at midnight to wish Brendan a happy birthday, and Steven almost putting her on speakerphone, nearly transferring the sounds of their expletives and groans to Brendan's sister, quickly ignoring the call just in time.

Brendan wants a repeat, strongly suspecting that the best cure for a pounding head is to slick Steven up with his fingers, replacing them with his cock when they're both ready, and fucking him until they feel alive again.

Steven has other plans, most of which seem to consist of him becoming a nightmare party planner. Once Brendan's devoured the toast, the boy's up from his seat and busying himself with washing up some of the empty plates, insisting that Brendan leave them.

"Can't be doing dishes on your birthday, can you? It's against the law or something."

Brendan goes back to the bedroom, cock disappointingly flaccid. He begins to get dressed, and when he stares in the mirror it's with a spark of newfound self consciousness. Making sure that the door's shut, he moves closer to his reflection and inspects his hair. He can't see any grey strands, not yet, but then he begins to doubt the trustworthiness of his own eyesight - what if he starts needing glasses soon? He knows he'll never hear the end of it from Steven, that the boy will call him all sorts, knowing how much it riles him.

He's still in good shape, that much he's sure of. His shoulder's are still broad, and his abdominal muscles are tight, his stomach toned. He's still able to fit into everything that he owned ten years ago. He knows that Steven isn't just with him for the way he looks. He wouldn't have put up with the things he has if that was the case.

But Jesus, _forty_. Forty years old, when his boy's still thirty, skin still dewy and golden, frame as skinny as ever. Brendan never thought he'd reach this age. He thought he'd be dead.

Steven opens the door just as Brendan's zipping up his trousers, the boy's eyes darting towards the boxers disappearing under his flies.

"Shame." He nods towards them, lips stretched into a grin.

Hope rises within him, that perhaps he can tempt the boy back into bed after all.

"There's still time..." He walks closer, more like a deliberate prowl, eyes low and dark.

Steven looks at his watch. "Everyone will be here soon."

"That just makes it more interesting." It wouldn't be the first time they've been caught. He's pretty sure Douglas has never been able to forget the sight of walking into Chez Chez, equipped with a bottle of wine, ready to toast Steven getting his old job back and finding them fucking in the office, Steven on all fours on the desk as Brendan rocked into him steadily from behind.

They'd come to a business arrangement, him and Steven, turning the place into a gastro bar in the daytime, the menu of his own selection. Only they've ended up getting even less work done than they had when they first worked together as boss and employee.

"Brendan," Steven scolds, but it's easy to weaken his resolve. Brendan walks him backwards, his back hitting the door, shutting it behind them.

"Aren't you going to give me my present?"

"I've already got you a present. It's all wrapped up," the boy says coyly.

"You wrapped your cock up?"

Steven laughs into his mouth as Brendan kisses him, the man working his dressing gown open.

"I really need to get dressed -"

"You're far more interesting with your clothes off."

"You're so shallow."

"I know."

Brendan thinks he's got him then, thinks that it won't take much to steer him towards the bed, Steven's good intentions crumbling completely. The boy uses his cockiness to his advantage, managing to push Brendan away and disentangle himself from his hold. His cheeks are flushed, his lips bee stung. He holds up a hand warningly.

"Our guests are not gonna find you shagging me."

Brendan tuts. "You take the fun out of everything."

In one fluid movement Steven strips out of his t-shirt and boxers, his dressing gown a heap on the floor. Brendan's heart stutters. They only came back from Italy a few weeks ago, the pair of them consuming more pasta than the average human should be able to withstand, and the boy's got the remains of a tan. His skin's even more honey coloured than it usually is, the sight of it making Brendan want to run his tongue down his body, take his cock in his palm and lick it from base to tip.

Steven knows exactly what he's doing, was born to be a tease. The boy reaches upwards to grab a bottle of shampoo from the shelf, displaying the curve of his arse and the sight of his long, hair covered legs. When he leaves the room, heading towards the shower, he gives a wiggle of his bum as a parting gesture, and Brendan swears under his breath, reaching into his trouser suit and jerking himself off hurriedly before a knock on the door can interrupt him.

* * *

Leah's got a boyfriend. Brendan wants to meet this _Brian_ and kill him.

"Aren't you a bit young?" He asks bluntly.

She's stubborn, just like her father. "I'm fourteen. That's old enough, isn't it dad?"

She turns to Steven, looking for his approval. He stares between his daughter and Brendan, isn't the first time that he's had to be the buffer in a disagreement, Brendan's protectiveness causing heated rows before the dust settles and peace is restored.

"I had a girlfriend when I was that age, Bren."

"Who, Amy? That turned out well, didn't it? Do you want Leah to be pregnant at that age too?"

Steven stares at the ceiling, looking like he's searching for strength. "No, not Amy. Someone else. And it was fine - the world didn't end. As long as they're not...you know, doing anything."

Brendan winces at the though of Leah even contemplating it. Jesus, it seems like she was still playing with Barbie dolls a few years ago.

Leah looks just as affronted, curling her lip in distaste.

"Dad, that's disgusting."

"Yeah, good girl," Brendan praises, momentarily satisfied by her distaste.

"No, I mean him talking to me about it."

The smile drops from Brendan's face. "So, when are we going to meet this Brian?"

"Can you stop saying_ this Brian_, like he's a disease? And the answer's never."

"Why not?"

"Because he'd leave the house barely standing."

"Point," he says, seeing no need to deny it. "What does Amy say about this?" For once he wants her anger, wants her to lock Leah in her bedroom and never let her leave.

"I'm fine about it," Amy interjects, coming up behind them and making a grab for the crisp bowl. Steven seems to have gathered everything for a child's birthday party. They've got sausages on sticks, party rings, coca cola in plastic cups. Brendan's waiting for when they start playing pass the parcel and musical chairs.

"Really?" He asks, voice laced with disapproval.

Amy rolls her eyes, the way she's prone to do whenever she enters Brendan's vicinity.

"She's sensible. I trust her."

"Thank you," Leah says, appeased and smug, sticking her tongue out at Brendan.

"Jesus. Don't tell me Lucas is seeing someone too." Steven's son is currently deep in conversation with Cheryl, although the conversation seems to be happening on her part - Lucas is too busy staring at her heaving cleavage.

"Not yet. He'll take after me though, won't he. Proper heartbreaker," Steven says, nudging Brendan on the shoulder with a smile.

"Anyway, we're not meant to be going on about us, are we?" Leah cuts in, full of authority. Her confidence continues to amaze Brendan. "It's your birthday!"

"Yeah, I really don't need reminding," Brendan says, mumbling into his plastic cup. He's tried to be on his best behaviour today, making do with some lemonade instead of his usual drink of choice. His head still feels sore, as though the real party's going on inside his skull.

"Are you mad? Birthday's mean presents!" Leah says, as though it's obvious. She beckons over to the table where there's a dozen packages lying, as yet unopened. Brendan hates the attention of it, how he's expected to open them while everyone surrounds him. But he can't help but be curious about which one's from Steven.

Leah gathers everyone in a circle around the sofa and chairs, Brendan and Steven at the centre, in the spotlight. Brendan's glad that the boy's remained by his side; he's still not completely at ease with family gatherings, especially when every time that Amy comes to visit he can see her eyes gliding over Steven's body, checking for bruises which haven't marked his skin in six years.

Brendan's niece and nephew sit propped up on Cheryl and Nate's laps, too young to fully understand what's going on, laughing when Steven pulls funny faces at them to keep them entertained.

Brendan reaches for the first present, sensing that he's not going to be able to avoid it forever. He recognises the handwriting that adorns the tag attached to it, a joint present from Padraig and Declan. They'd tried to persuade Brendan to let them book the tickets for the flight, but his word had been final. He didn't want the boys to travel from Ireland during their exams, and he sure as hell wasn't expecting Eileen to come. The thought of her and her husband joining them filled Brendan with dread, even if things had settled down between them in the years since he left her.

They've got him some Johnny Cash albums, and he feels touched that they've remembered his tastes, especially after they spent hours complaining to him that no one buys album's anymore, and "when are you going to get onto itunes like the rest of us, dad?" Steven picks one of the CD's up and pretends to find sixties rock and roll music intensely fascinating, and Brendan loves him for it. The boy opens the lid of the CD player he's carried through for the occasion, the room filling with music.

"Do we have to listen to this?" Lucas asks, squinting as though it physically hurts. Brendan's heard the thumping noise of the music drifting from his bedroom when he comes to stay with them; it's something that even Chez Chez would reject.

"Brendan likes it. It's Brendan's day," Steven says emphatically, and if he's trying to get Brendan to fuck him all night then it's working; he's already staring at the boy with desire. Steven's tracksuit fits him to perfection, accentuating the parts of him that are Brendan's weak spots.

He wishes they were alone.

The remainder of the presents are what he expected. He gets a bottle of aftershave from Nate, something ridiculously expensive and fancy, a brand he can't even pronounce. Cheryl's brought him a tie covered with moustaches, seems to think it's hilarious and inspired and collapses into a fit of giggles, her daughter staring up at her with something like alarm. Brendan had insisted that Leah and Lucas don't get him anything, had told them that their messages in a card were enough. They don't have money to spend, and he doesn't want to give Amy another excuse to resent him, having to give away some of her earnings to buy Brendan a gift.

He nearly dies of shock when she selects one of the presents from the table, handing it over to him. It's the first present she's ever brought him, and she barely even looks at him as she passes it into his hands.

He swallows, skin prickling with sweat. It feels monumental, like a form of acceptance. He can see Steven beaming beside him, almost bouncing back on his heels with the idea of them burying the past and forming an unlikely alliance.

"Happy fortieth birthday." Amy mutters it, and Brendan thinks she's drawing attention to his age on purpose, but it's a start. It's progress.

"Thanks," he says softly, and he opens the wrapping, his movements almost timid, the very opposite of everything he is. He nearly bursts out laughing when he sees what's inside. He holds it up, unable to stop the smile from gracing his face. He can see it there, however dimmed, the smile that Amy can't hold back.

"A tea cup?" Steven says in confusion.

Amy hums in acknowledgement, eyes never leaving Brendan's.

"I don't get it," Steven continues, frowning. "That's dead fancy. And Brendan's not...well, he's not exactly fancy, is he? And he usually drinks coffee."

Brendan listens as he rambles on, holding the cup carefully, doesn't want it to fall and break. "Thanks, Amy." There's sincerity there, the kind of which is very rarely used when he's in her presence.

"You're welcome." She looks down at the floor, smile still on her lips.

Steven lets it pass, seems to sense that it's something private and shared that he's not entirely part of, although Steven's _always_ part of it somehow. Everything has always been about him, Brendan's whole life for the past ten years.

The atmospheres been lightened, and when he opens Anne's present - moustache trimmers which make Brendan let out an exasperated sigh, knowing how much she drones on about wanting to see him clean shaven - he feels less weighed down by expectations and the fear that something could go wrong, that with almost all his family in one room he's going to explode, do something dangerous that makes them think that he can't handle this, still isn't equipped for life on the straight and narrow.

He can't help but notice that there are no more remaining presents, and he doesn't want to ask Steven, doesn't want to draw attention to the fact that he's curious now, wondering what the boy's got him. And Brendan's distracted, mesmerised by the sight of Steven milling around the room, talking to the guests and having an endless amount of enthusiasm and patience. His eyes are bright, his smile wide, and Brendan basks under the knowledge that he's contributing to that happiness.

It's not long before the adults hit the booze, trying to do it subtly at first so that they don't set the kids a bad example. They soon abandon their attempts to try and be sneaky, Nate's accent becoming even more upper class as he slings an arm around Brendan, "us boys have got to stick together", looking in the direction of their partners as though Steven's just as much of a wife to Brendan as Cheryl is to Nate. After Brendan speaks to Anne, finding out about Phoenix and America and her new boyfriend, he decides that one drink couldn't possibly hurt.

One drink extends into half a dozen, and he's slumped on the sofa and watching as Steven dances in front of him, hips swaying to the sound of Johnny Cash.

"You don't have to listen to this, you know." He'd understand if Steven wanted to change it to something else, something more along the lines of Cheryl Cole. This isn't what he'd call celebration music.

"No, I don't mind it. It reminds me of when we...you know." The boy's tipsy himself, grinning wolfishly and sparking memories inside Brendan's head: he often plays Johnny Cash to drown out the sound of Steven when they're in bed together, reluctant to let the neighbours hear the boy's shouting.

Brendan runs his hand down his thigh, watches as the boy follows the movement, lips parted in arousal. He's delicious like this, even more uninhibited when he's got some liquor in him.

"I like it when you dance for me," Brendan says privately, so that no one else can hear. Leah and Lucas are too busy on their phones, Nate directing Cheryl to the bathroom when she bangs her head against the doorway.

"Oh yeah?" Steven increases his movements, legs stretched either sides of Brendan's, his own lap dance. Brendan wants the boy to straddle him, but he's not _meant_ to want that in a room full of their friends and family.

"Later," Brendan promises him, before this escalates and he has Steven seated fully on him, arse grinding against his dick.

Steven leans forward, mouth close to Brendan's ear. "You're gonna love your present."

Fuck. Brendan wants to know what it is, _needs_ to. His mind swims with possibilities, none of which are as appealing as the boy before him.

"Give me a clue," he says, a hint of desperation in his voice.

Steven shakes his head wickedly, knowing what his denial is doing to the man. Brendan wouldn't be surprised if this was all part of his scheme - make him think about the present all afternoon, so that by the time the evening's arrived he's a mess, crying out for relief, captivated by the boy and everything he can do to him. No one in the room would know it, but Brendan can see through the facade. It's partly why he'd chosen Steven to help him cheat at poker all those years ago; no one would ever suspect a boy who appears so outwardly coy and naive.

He tries to use his guests as a form of distraction, and the booze helps him to loosen up, to forget about his reservations about turning forty, about the prospect of getting older, of getting _old_. He even lets Cheryl steer him onto the dance floor, their makeshift one in the living room. Leah laughs at him, accusing him of dancing like a dad, to which his reply is, "But I am a dad." He ignores her giggling, taking Steven into his arms and twisting him around the room, the boy narrowly avoiding colliding with furniture when he gets a little too overzealous.

When Amy suggests that they hit the road, Brendan's almost shocked at how quickly the time's passed. He's actually enjoyed himself, didn't think it was possible, but there's been an easiness about the day, a relaxed atmosphere which has allowed him to have space to think, to realise that he can do this. Growing older might just be bearable, if he has Steven by his side.

He helps Nate and Cheryl into a taxi, waving them off and becoming agitated once more as he wonders if Amy's had anything to drink, the thought of her driving the kids into town making him panic; it fills him with terror, anything happening to Leah and Lucas. She swats him away like he's a fly.

"Do you really think I'd risk that? I'm sober, go back inside and stop hovering."

He waits until the last minute, waving until Leah and Lucas are out of sight.

When he goes back inside, Steven's sprawled on the sofa, a can of cider in his hand.

"Classy."

"Shut up." The boy spreads out his body even more, legs open and groin on display.

"You can never hold your booze, boy."

"Don't call me boy." Steven tries to kick him with his foot, abandoning the attempt when he's too far away. He grabs a straw that had been in one of the kid's juice cartons, tucking it into the cider can and sipping. "See, I'm slowing down, me."

"No, now you just look like a cute drunk."

Steven gives him a lopsided smile. "Ta. You gonna join me?" He makes room on the sofa, allowing Brendan to sit beside him, pouring himself some of the leftover whiskey.

"Did you have a good day then, old man?"

Brendan sighs. "The jokes are never going to end now, are they?"

"Don't know what you're talking about," Steven says, full of mock innocence. "Sugar daddy," he whispers under his breath, dodging when Brendan tries to tickle him in revenge.

"Alright, I'm sorry!" The boy gasps, struggling to escape, chest heaving from laughter. "If it's any consolation I'm getting proper old now too, aren't I?"

Brendan stares at him levelly. "Steven, you're thirty. You look like a fucking model."

Steven lies back on the sofa, looking satisfied. "Tell me something I don't know."

"Stop fishing for compliments then."

Steven sips at the cider, nibbling on the straw out of the corner of his mouth.

"Wouldn't you rather Guinness?"

"No. Proper rank, that."

Brendan draws the boy closer to him, overcome by a strong feeling of fondness. It could be the booze, but he doubts that: it's Steven, and the endless chatter that fills their home, the sound of him draining the last remaining contents of the can.

Brendan itches with impatience. "Have you got something to show me?"

Steven leans against his chest, voice slurred at the edges. "Huh?" He asks inelegantly, legs dangling over Brendan's lap. Brendan gives them an idle stroke, hoping to convince the boy through caresses to give him what he wants.

"I've got everyone else's presents," he reminds him, the strokes whispery soft.

Steven smiles knowingly. "Ah, I see. I thought you didn't do presents?"

Brendan shrugs. He thought he didn't either. "I can make exceptions." Mainly because he's certain now that Steven's gift revolves around letting Brendan eat his chocolate buttercream birthday cake off his chest. He's not an idiot; that's not something you say no to.

"Sorry, but I can't give it to you yet. It's not here."

Brendan frowns, his movements on Steven's skin slowing. "What do you mean?"

"I ordered something to arrive by tonight."

Brendan tries to think of something that would need ordering in advance. Perhaps something from the Internet, but that doesn't narrow down his options. He's about to beg Steven to fuck the surprise and tell him what it is, but the boy rises at the sound of knocking on the door.

"Maybe someone forgot something," Brendan says, imagining Cheryl or Amy being on the other side.

"Or maybe that's your present."

"Who delivers at this hour?"

Steven ignores him, and Brendan hears the sound of the door opening, an excitable squeal being elicited from his boyfriend.

"Just put it over here please."

Brendan stands up, even more baffled by what it could be. His mouth drops when he sees what Steven's brought him, the present being maneuvered into the living room by the delivery man.

"Jesus..."

"I don't think Jesus was responsible for this, Bren."

He's not arguing with that. He doesn't say anything while Steven directs the man on where he wants the thing to settle, just watches in shock until he's left them to it, having the good grace not to laugh at what he's just delivered.

Steven stands back, admiring his gift. "It's mint, isn't it?"

Brendan tries to keep calm. "What were you thinking?"

"What do you mean?" Steven asks, sounding genuinely surprised by Brendan's less than enthusiastic reaction.

"Steven, it's massive. Where the hell are we going to put that thing? We can't have it out in the open when the kids come to stay."

"We can put it in our room, can't we?" He has an answer for everything, is staring at the blasted thing like it's perfectly natural for it to be taking up residency in their home. "Don't you like it?"

He wants to remain tactful, to not hurt the boy's feelings. But he struggles to keep the doubt from his voice. "I hope you're not expecting me to use it." It's better if he's honest now. He can't let Steven entertain the idea of him putting on a show, spinning around on it like a circus act.

"No, it's not for you. I mean it is, it's your present, but you're not going to be the one using it - I am."

Brendan's eyebrows quirk up at that, his interest piqued. "You?"

Steven nods, sliding a hand over it. "I thought that would have been obvious."

Brendan looks between the present and Steven, connecting the dots. And fuck, he likes this. He really likes it.

He tries to cover up his earlier hesitancy. "I'm just surprised, is all. It's not every day that someone gets this for their birthday."

"Yeah, well I spoke to Tony about it, and apparently he and Jacqui used to have one."

"You spoke to Tony Hutchinson about our sex life?" A ripple of horror goes through him. And fuck, he doesn't need to know anything about Tony's sex life with his PVC clad girlfriend either.

"No, course not! It's not like I told him the details, is it? I just told him I wanted to get you the perfect present, something unique, and..."

"It's certainly unique," Brendan says with a grin, one that Steven matches.

"You did say you like it when I dance for you." The boy begins to unzip his tracksuit jacket, revealing the smooth skin that Brendan's been denied all day.

He's got him, just like that. They both know it, Brendan moving closer and taking the zip out of Steven's hands, undoing it all the way to the bottom, eyes travelling lower.

"Do you want to see me dance for you now?" Steven strips out of the jacket, pulling off his vest underneath. His chest is warm, covered by a light expanse of hair that Brendan's convinced him not to shave off.

"Yes." He whispers it, taking a seat on the sofa, whiskey in hand. He's not sure he'll be able to concentrate on drinking it though, doesn't think that he'll be able to concentrate on _anything_ when Steven's flirting with him like this.

He settles back and enjoys the view; Steven Hay, his own personal pole dancer, standing next to the gift that he's brought Brendan, hands moving up and down the shiny metal. He takes his clothes off slowly, allowing Brendan to luxuriate over every inch of skin, from his legs circling around the pole to the tantalising reveal of his cock. He's got a semi, nestled around his bed of pubic hair, his balls looking heavy, been far too long since they were inside Brendan's mouth.

Brendan wishes he could take his own trousers off. Making himself come earlier hadn't been enough. He needs Steven's hands, Steven's mouth, Steven's touch. But he doesn't want to move, doesn't want to risk the chance of missing a single movement or action.

Steven only pauses from undressing to go to the CD player again, taking the disc out and replacing it with one of his own. Brendan expects chaotic dance music to replace the quiet, but it's not Steven's standard choice; it's unusually soulful, the singer's voice like melted caramel. Motown, he instantly realises.

When they first met Steven was intimated by Brendan, would physically shake in his presence, despite the mouthiness that he was trying to project. There's no trace of that remaining now. The boy's confidence is astounding, and with a few glasses of wine and beer in his system, it's even more pronounced. What his dancing's lacking in skill and coordination it makes up for in sensuality; he dances like he thinks he's good, and therefore he is.

Neither of them speak. The music's taken hold of them, and Steven kicks his clothes out of the way, starting to grasp onto the pole with his hand, testing it out, building up to swinging around it for the first time. It should look faintly ridiculous, should look surreal; Steven's brought him a fucking _pole_ for his fortieth birthday. But he's never wanted to call the boy a genius more than he does now, thinks that this must be by far his most intelligent idea. With every turn round the pole he sees a different area of Steven's body, one minute the flesh of his arse, then his cock which is rapidly growing harder, arousal spiking through him from Brendan's intense gaze.

When Steven stops, Brendan knows what he's about to do, can read it in the boy's eyes.

"Go on," Brendan encourages, a hitch in his breath that betrays how much he wants him.

Steven wets his lips, wiping away the hint of nervousness, a look of determination on his face. He braces himself, his hand solidly wrapped around the sliding length of the pole, his stomach sucked in and his legs flexed.

His first attempt at coiling himself around it results in him quickly coming to rest at the base, letting out a booming laugh of embarrassment. Brendan grins, watching as the boy brushes himself off and stands to his feet, nothing if not a trier. The second time he's more assured, and it's hard to tell where the pole ends and Steven begins. He alternates, spinning around it, dancing away from it and in front of Brendan, the Irishman reaching out and giving the boy's cock a few firm strokes. Then he molds himself to the pole again, jumping and holding onto it like you would a rope. The sight is obscene, Steven's hole directly in Brendan's eye line, arse anchored towards him, knees bent in half as he tries to hold on and stay in the air for as long as possible.

Brendan _has_ to swig from his bottle of Jameson's then, needs something to stop the thirst that's suddenly overcome him. It makes his mouth water, seeing Steven like this, wanton and on display, all his.

He can't be passive anymore, might go half mad with it if he does nothing. He stands up to full height, watching as Steven slides down off the pole, clearly curious now as to what the older man's next move will be. The power's shifted; it's in Brendan's hands again.

Brendan discards his clothes before he reaches the boy, having no need for them now. He motions with one finger for Steven to step closer, his Adam's apple moving erratically as anticipation rises within him, knowing that Brendan's expression is filled with heat.

Brendan slinks to the floor, planting himself down onto the base of the pole, settling there. His arse feels cold against the material, but a touch of Steven's skin reveals it to be warm. He drags the boy closer by his leg, although he needs little persuasion, willingly letting Brendan place him where he wants.

"Thank you for my present." Between words he kisses Steven's legs, leaning on his knees to reach his thighs. The hair's brush against his mouth, masculine and thrilling because of it.

"You're welcome." Steven's voice sounds shaky, his cock pooled against his stomach. He covers his hands over his groin, trying to hide how aroused he's gotten so quickly.

Brendan ignores his shame, bating the boy's hands away and fisting his cock, making Steven lean his head back against the pole, eyes drifting shut. Brendan uses the opportunity to catch Steven unawares, abruptly pulling the boy's arse down onto his face. He lets out a yelp of surprise, his noises turning to those of pleasure when Brendan positions him more securely, tongue driving up into the boy's hole.

He's merciless to begin with, immediately getting into the tight, hot muscle, but then he pulls back, lapping at the boy's arse cheeks with his tongue, and biting them when he feels inclined, when Steven begins to grow bossy and demanding.

"Anyone would think this is your birthday," Brendan murmurs, laying kisses around the curve of Steven's spine, just above his arse. Steven knows he's teasing, because rimming Steven _is_ his present, and fucking him will be too.

"I'll give you anything you want after." He doesn't know what he's saying, is dazed with lust, brain foggy. "Please, just..." He pushes his arse down, closer to the target of Brendan's lips. Brendan laughs in satisfaction, will never get over the high of Steven begging him to fuck him with his tongue, nothing shy or timid about him.

"Come on then. Lets see what you've got. Fuck back on me, good boy."

Steven groans, getting what he's been craving, the roughness of Brendan's tongue breeching his entrance. He's holding onto the pole for leverage, and the sound of the boy running his fingers down it cuts through the music, louder because of the sweat that's gathering on his palms.

"I love you."

Brendan smirks. He knows Steven means it, isn't a question of that, but he always gets like this when they're fucking; emotion mixed with the carnality of him, as though he'd give Brendan the whole world when they're together like this. Stick a tongue or a finger or a nine inch cock up Steven's arse, and he'd sell his soul to the devil.

His response is to give Steven more wet heat, pushing his tongue into him as far as he can get.

He hears a loud noise, the sound of Steven kicking in front of him, the aftershave bottle that Nate brought Brendan rolling further along the carpet, still miraculously intact.

"Sorry," Steven mumbles, doesn't sound it one bit, just wants to get Brendan to continue in what he's doing, manipulation at its finest.

"Stay still." Brendan wraps a hand around his stomach to try and ensure that he does, but Steven won't be contained, won't let that stop him. He's rocking back and forth on Brendan's tongue, fucking him like he would his cock, and Brendan thinks it's a good thing that they got that pole; Steven needs something to hold onto, something that won't break while he comes apart at the seams.

"Sweet arse." Brendan licks into it once more, the taste of Steven settling on his tongue. It had been combined with champagne the day before, but now it's unadulterated, just Steven making his senses alight.

Brendan's going to come before he's inside him if he keeps this up - is that another negative of getting older, not being able to last as long as he used to? Or is it just Steven, and the effect that he has on him? How the boy's free from the shackles of nerves and uncertainty that bound him when they first fucked, and he takes Brendan's breath away with the things he can do.

"Let me do that." Steven removes Brendan's hand, which had been wrapped around his own cock, the risk of coming prematurely be damned.

"Make me come." It's a demand, a growl in the boy's ear. "And make it good."

Steven sits down beside Brendan, precome leaking from the slit of his dick. He licks into his palm for slide before he takes Brendan in his hand, working him over. There's a joy to be had from coming in Steven's hand, something that Brendan doesn't experience nearly enough, unable to resist spilling his spunk inside the boy's arse instead, the intense gratification of knowing that Steven's full of Brendan, no part of his body that he hasn't made his mark on.

But he wants it now, lets Steven milk his dick in his hand and bucks into it, his forehead leaning against the boy's shoulder.

"That's it." His voice is ragged, so close to climax, just a few more strokes and he'll be there.

He almost cries out at the sight of Steven sliding further down his body, replacing his hand with his mouth, lips creating a tight vacuum around him, his tongue coiling and twisting and taking him all the way down.

Brendan shoots down his throat, a stream of come filling Steven's mouth. The boy doesn't hesitate for one second, swallowing it down like it's his pleasure to do it, not even wiping his mouth clean, but merely licking his lips to remove the remaining traces. Brendan breathes deeply, cock turning soft and spent, hand settling around Steven's back so that they can remain connected.

He laughs at the sight of the pole, and it's infectious; Steven collapses into giggles beside him, eyeing the metal as though he isn't quite sure what the hell he was thinking, but he's not entirely sure that he's regretful either.

When they're ready they'll move it to the bedroom, but not now. Now, Brendan wants to make his boy come.

* * *

He eases a lubed finger into him, slowly stretching him out. It's unnecessary; Steven's hole is already loose from being rimmed, but he's in love with the sight of it, as Steven keens in pleasure and experiences an all over body shiver, hands settled around the bedsheets.

The boy likes the feel of the lube, likes how it warms up under Brendan's touch, and how it makes him tingle, the slippery slide of it addictive. They don't always use the commercial variety - they've made do with cream, with jam, with the frosting from a cake. When they stopped using condoms it became more difficult to get the initiative to buy other supplies, but Brendan's uncapped a new bottle, spreading it on both his probing digits and his cock.

Steven has his eyes closed, but Brendan wants him here with him, present. His hand reaches out, his fingers brushing along the boy's eyelashes to get him to look at him. Their eyes lock, Steven's blue and overcome by Brendan hitting his prostate with each upwards push of his fingers.

"I'm ready."

"You sure?"

Steven nods, eagerness overriding his features. He looks sated, languid, as though he's the one whose just had a hand job and had his come released down Brendan's throat.

Brendan removes his finger, pulling Steven upwards and towards him, and wrapping his arms around him. He wants them to be enveloped together when they come, wants to feel the fluttering of Steven's pulse and the quickening of his breath. He guides his cock into the boy, easing the tip into him, past his rim and assessing how much speed to use by Steven's reactions. When the boy digs his nails into Brendan's arse, the Irishman goes deeper, his balls brushing against Steven's skin. The stretch is divine, being surrounded by the wetness and warmth of Steven, molding himself around him like they always do, lips pressed against the boy's cheek.

He rocks into him, starts out slow but he can't keep the pace up, needing to gain more friction. Steven's letting out strangled sobs, gloriously loud, and they're propelling Brendan forward, making him slam into the boy's hole and out again, feeling the familiar beginnings of his orgasm.

Steven doesn't need to tell him when he's going to come, wraps a fist around his dick when he's close and begins stroking rapidly. Brendan holds out until he feels the dampness on his stomach, the long, drawn out groan that signals Steven's climax. He releases minutes after the boy, come spurting into Steven's hole as he buries his head into the crook of Steven's neck, inhaling the smell of sweat and sex and sweetness that radiates from him.

Brendan remains on top of him, easing off only slightly to make sure he doesn't knock the breath out of him. They kiss, tongues colliding lazily, hands sweeping through each others hair. Brendan attempts to tuck Steven's behind his ears even though it's too short, and he hans't been able to do it in seven years. Old habits die hard.

Steven hugs him, warm and beautifully safe, and as he kisses him he says it, "happy birthday, Brendan," and Brendan's glad to hear it, glad to still be here even when the world's seemed like a dark place, when life hasn't always been so kind. He made it through, doesn't know how the fuck he did some days, but a large part of that is down to this boy, this boy who gave him life.

* * *

"What the fuck are we going to do with this thing?"

They stand in front of the pole, still a statue in the living room, large and taking up space, looking even more tainted with sin than before, the memory of Steven dancing around it still present in their minds.

"I told you, we can put it in the bedroom."

"You think it's going to fit?" Brendan asks doubtfully. He can't imagine what it's going to be like, waking up every morning and seeing it looming over them. He considers asking Steven to wrap himself around it every day, could be persuaded to keep it if the boy agrees. He wants to be reminded of the boy's pliability again, the way he'd worked the pole like a pro. He's got a bad feeling that Steven was lying before though, and that he intends to try and get him to take a spin around it. He shudders. That's not an image he wants.

"Still want to spend the next forty years with me then, after this?" Steven's grinning, knows what the answer is already. It feels good to realise that the boy knows his worth at last, how Brendan can't survive a day on this earth without him.

Brendan puts an arm around him, preparing to steer him towards the bedroom again.

"Always."


End file.
